Bother
by Abi2
Summary: Harry sees himself in someone close to him... Will it be enough to save them when the time comes? HarryDraco. Time line up to OotP, some HBP.


Summ: Harry looks at his life, filled with the knowledge that he is a killer. Harry/Draco. Time line up to OotP, some HBP. A six/seventh year fic.

Because at heart, we all want it to work out in the end. Because we all want to see the hero go home happy, to save the day, get the girl (or guy) and live with smiles and puppies. But deeper down, a part of us wants to see them fall, to see them struggle and see them REAL. We want someone that we can say, "I think that would be me." We want the story to end with the hero seeing how they affected people, how they really felt about it.

We want to see the nightmares, the pain, the trauma.

We want to see their misery so that we can feel better that we are not them. We won't have picture-perfect endings, but we won't end up alone and unhappy. Schadenfreude- German for happiness at the misfortune of others.

I wrote this because no ending is perfect. No story is shallow, and no one person can save a people. They instigate a revolution, the defeat the figurehead, but they cannot fight a war singly.

But they do.

This is that story.

-

-

-

-

-

((I wish I was too dead to cry when self affliction fails. Stones to throw at my creator, masochists to which I cater. You don't need to bother, I don't need to be. I'll keep slipping farther, but once I hold on, I won't let go 'till it bleeds.))

-

-

For the record, I never openly hurt myself. Sure I was guilty of hitting a few walls, and the occasional hair-pulling, but I never cut myself or anything. I dealt with all of my pain the usual way- repression. Repression is where you take all that bothers you and you push it so far into the "back" of your mind that you forget it until something drags it to the forefront. I would take all of my rage and pain and shove it down. All of my hurt at my ever-changing opinion in the eyes of the public, in the hearts of my peers.

I never thought that it was bad for me. Then again, even though I knew what the Dursleys did to me was wrong, was abuse, I simply let it bury itself in my psyche, let myself ignore my treatment.

I was only hit when I did something really bad, like magic, I would get cuffed on the head and then sent to my cupboard. They never physically abused me, it was all starvation and the living conditions.

Alright, so maybe starvation does count as a physical kind of abuse... But mostly, theirs was a psychological kind of terror. They would verbally attack me, would bait and goad and terrify. Hurtful things, truths, half lies, full lies. I have the strange feeling, looking back on it now, that they are what helped me to survive as long as I have.

I had to prove to them, to myself and the world, that I was better than all that they said I was. I was better than a slave, I was better than a punch-toy. I was better than my parents (that one was only until I found out the real truth- the problem then became trying to break free of the fact that I wasn't a carbon-copy of James, I wasn't like them in anymore than traits and features.) I was better than everything they thought I was. When I found out about my heritage, it became a quest to prove that I was not weak, not evil, not crazy, not angry. Not unhappy, not disliked, not liked, not this, not that. It changed constantly. One thing would be the opposite of another, one thing would be a trait of this that made me that.

Without the training of the Dursleys from a young age, I may have broken under all that pressure.

As it is, I think I'll break soon, I can feel the cracks in my mind, feel the trickle of magic-laced memories that make up so much of me without my conscious self knowing it.

I think it was Draco Malfoy who first showed me that I needed to use these memories, to get past them before they killed me. I needed to work them out. He showed me without knowing it. He lived.

How did he live? I would ask myself. I would watch him from behind my paper, from under the fringe of my bangs. I would see that mask he wore, the "Slytherin Prince" mask he wore. I remain convinced (much to the proud ramblings of certain parties) that he could always see mine too. Maybe not when we were kids, still unaffected by the war. As much as we could be back then I suppose. Not a one of us were unaffected by the war, but we had not been completely immersed in it yet. As we grew up, grew into the war that was being fought, the ultimate symbol to our peers of the two sides of the war, the good, the bad.

Back, even just two years ago, I was less adept at the masks thing. I never fully understood the concept that people wear emotions to hide how they really feel, hide from the barbs and taunts, the jeering and the cheering. I became an expert after Sirius. I was a gloomy bastard after that unfortunate incident, but I did as always, I repressed the incident. They would think it strange were I to go about unaffected by the deep tragedy of his death, so I couldn't let them know. It wasn't that I was unaffected, it's that I wasn't aware of how deeply it hurt, how much it scared me, because in my mind, the memory was hazy, like a picture taken from far, far away.

So I started to create a conscious mask. I weaved the hurt feelings from times before, and I wore them out whenever I was surrounded by the people who knew. I had seen Draco do this many times. He would look so... not vulnerable... he was never vulnerable. He would look scared. Afraid of opinions, afraid of news. He would hide the fear under the mask of a sneer, a jibe. He would insult someone or thing. And he would survive until he could let it out.

How did I know he let it out and not just bottle it like I did?

I saw it.

I was late to a class -herbology maybe?- when I turned down a corridor that should have been empty at that time. There were no classes there for the period, so I was stunned to see a figure on the floor with it's knees pulled up, head tipped back to catch the sunlight filtering through. The first clue to who it was was the hair, flashing pale gold in the sun. It had been left down that day, instead of the usual tie for the shoulder length silk. (Oh come on- he's rich and vain, everyone knows it. It -has- to be silky.) I may have thought it a girl if not for the deep sigh that came from him, it was most certainly a him. I walked softly, not wanting to disturb his peace. I knew there would be an exchange, but why disrupt him unless absolutely necessary. I know how hard it is to find peace for more than just a few seconds here and there. I tried to just walk past, but after I drew level, he sighed again and spoke.

"Potter, what are you doing here?"

"Missing class. I was on my way," late as per usual, "and I figured this was the easiest way there. You?"

I didn't have the energy for a snappish, angry comeback. Let him fight. I didn't need to.

"Trying to find some time alone."

I stopped. I couldn't help but turn around. I looked at him - really looked. Not just my glances and half-stares from across a room. This was up close. This wasn't the close of a duel in the hall, or the typical exchange of arguments and insults. This was an examination of a tired soul.

I took the few steps to bring me even again, and I let him see, no masks.

"I understand."

And I left.

Bet you're wondering...Why no touching scene of dramatic explanations, no heart stopping moment of clarity?

We didn't need it. It was unnecessary to us. We simply looked at the other without the mask, and we saw in each other that there were things we hadn't noticed. Things which we should have seen sooner.

But I was so busy becoming the perfect tool, the weapon to bring us to the new age of fearlessness. The thing to end the war.

He was busy with his politics, his parents and peers. Facades to maintain, and a life of servitude to look forward to.

No time for examinations, no time for introspection.

No time for friendships that could have been. No time for the only other person in our daily lives who would understand what was happening in our minds, hearts, bodies, souls.

But we pushed away that lonely feeling until we forgot it again, immersed in the act of living. The act of caring and laughter.

I know that one day, not too long after that, I got called to see Dumbledore, and we watched a snatch of memory of Tom Riddle's mother, and how she came to leave him.

After that night, I felt in my mind a crack develop. How similar, how different were we? Voldemort and myself. Both orphans, both mistreated. Both hailed and hated. Both destined to die, either at the hands of our enemy, or the hands of the other. I was scared, and for once I couldn't hide it in my mind. It cracked the door to that bunch of memories. Hiding in the dark of my cupboard, times where I ran from bullies, every time I faced Voldemort. Sirius.

I think I would have broken if not for Draco. He kept me afloat for a little longer.

He came by the nook I had hidden myself in, where I was watching the moon rise though the windows. He was patrolling, he was a prefect you know. We never would have noticed each other if my foot hadn't been cast in the light, just enough for him to turn down that hallway and call out for the silly hiding git. His words, I swear. I cursed, but didn't move. I think it was a form of protest, maybe a move of apathy. Lethargy... I was so tired. Exhausted from my training (Occlumency, DA training, spells, charms, little things, big things...) and from school. From my emotions.

So he came over, cranky and tired too. It had to have been near midnight then...

"Potter, what are you doing out here so late? Breaking more rules? Tut tut. I'll have to take points you know."

"I know."

Still apathetic you can see.

"Well, what a witty retort. I think my IQ just fell down laughing. Is that all you've got?"

"Yeah, actually."

He stood silent for a few moments, still and outlined in the bright light of the full moon.

"I'm tired too. I shouldn't tell you that. But bloody hell, I don't care. God that felt good to say!"

I laughed for the first time in a week. A real laugh.

"Yeah, I always feel better after I tell someone off. Usually it's just the pillow though. I transfigure it to look like the person I'm mad at. It's great."

He sat down, legs crossed on the cold stones of the hallway floor. His head cocked to the side, hair spilling from the tie in the back, and he pushed it behind an ear, smiling just a little.

"I didn't think that was a spell we learned until next year. How did you come by it. Wait- let me guess. Granger?"

I laughed, a hollow, jaded sound. You know it, it's the sound of a victim, trying to laugh in the face of a memory.

"No, not quite. Minerva's been teaching me the advanced stuff- got to keep your little tool well trained. You never know when Old Tom's going to try to kill you again."

He sighed.

"Funnily enough, I know just what you mean. I didn't know that they trained you here. I thought they would do it over the summer."

"I don't think I should be telling you this, but what harm could come from what everyone knows anyways? You have to train your tools, but they don't like to take me away from my relatives. I don't fully understand it, but I guess it's because they're all I've got, and they think that it would make me feel better to be with those who love me."

"Well, they do don't they? Love you, I mean."

"Ha. The Dursleys have no love for me. They hate me, and all I stand for. They've hated me since before I was even born. I've lived my entire life reviled. I never knew love until I saw it in the eyes of my friends. At least I think it was love."

Draco looked away, a contemplative look on his face.

"I never thought that the great hero would live like that. I guess I just assumed that they would know what you did, would love you and cherish you. I never grew up in a loving household either, but I know that they love me, deep down where they don't have to hide it from those who would use it to their advantage. I don't know if I feel love for them- They raised me, but they never loved me. They never said it, showed it... I guess you could say I was jaded early on."

We both laughed softly. It wasn't a funny comment, but sometimes you have to laugh not to cry. Not that we were going to cry, but it was along the lines of laugh or contemplate further on your shitty childhoods.

"Well, we've got that in common. Ha, what else have we got that's so alike, and yet we have to be so different...I have to be the epitome of what ever they want from me... You ... I guess you have the same problem don't you?"

He nodded, the light catching his eyes, making them shine like mercury in the gloom.

"I've got my rumors to live up to... Do you?"

"What, live up to mine?"

He nodded.

"No," I shook my head slowly, staring up at the moon once again."No, I've learned that the best thing to do about rumors is to ignore them. If I let them get to me, then I'll try-." I stopped, an epiphany. "I'll do exactly as I do. I'll live up to the expectation. 'Potter, you're the best Seeker ever'. And I strive to win, to show them I am. 'Harry, you have to do better in your classes.' And I try, and even when I fail, she looks at me and tries to tell me, without success, that it's all right. And how can it be? I've failed, and so everyone will only see the failure, will feel bad for me, and will lash out, tell me to do better. You even, you'll look at me and remind me that my marks are barely acceptable while yours are exceptional. 'Mione just tries to play it off, but they never see, you never see...

"I try so hard to keep my head above the water, but when the sharks all take a bite, I lose parts of me I never knew I had. I find that the good marks I made in grade school before coming here mean nothing. I never get a chance to excel because in the summer, there is no homework. There is no magic. There's only hunger and misery and hate. Only bars and locks, words and papers. I get deliveries once a week... After dark because Hedwig has to come at night so that they won't see her. I get the paper, and I see all of the things that happen... All the things that I've caused simply by not knowing enough, not being good enough. Not trying hard enough... God, how hard can you try before you stumble and... and you die because you couldn't escape fast enough. You watch those you know, those you... do you love? You watch them die, you see them falling, dead accusing eyes. 'You killed us Harry.' That's what those eyes say to me. They look at me, my parents, Cedric Diggory, Sirius, even those who live...

"Dumbledore will look at me sometimes, and I can tell, even without looking into his thoughts, that he accuses me too. If I had died that day... Then Voldemort would have been defeated... But I lived... And I don't know why... Why live when you're destined to die at the hands of a mass-murdering madman who kills his own kind? He's a half-blood you know. Heir of Slytherin he may be, but he's still what he claims to be inferior. He's like Hitler, you know about Hitler, right? He led the German Nazi's to believe that the pure race was the Aryans, whites with blonde hair and blue eyes, tall and proud. He was short, dark haired, dark eyes, and he was just... He was no Aryan. But he killed millions of people for being something he didn't want. He killed Jews, gays, disabled people, gypsies... Mothers, children, men... All ages, all colors, creeds. Even his own men. What I'm saying is that even though Voldemort's a half-blood, he'll continue to kill his own because he wants to believe he isn't. He'll kill me, not only for being a half-blood, not only because I almost killed him so many times before... But because he and I... We're the same. Orphans... Abused and lauded. Hated and left to lick our wounds, only to have them ripped open again and again and again. I lost myself in the darkness of the life I've led, taking the hate and pain in stride, pushing it down and down and down... But I guess, as you can see, it has to come out somehow."

I stopped to breathe, reflecting on the speech I had inadvertently given. I was ashamed of speaking so frankly... It wasn't a trait I often exercised. But I had started, and just couldn't stop. I blushed, realizing how much I had revealed to my purposed enemy.

"Well... I guess I've talked your ear off... I think I said more than I should have... But sometimes... "

He looked at me, his eyes bore holes into my thoughts, reading me, reading my words like a book, page after page, life after life.

"I know."

He reached out to me, and I'm sad to say I flinched, expecting a fist, or a slap, not a hand to help me up.

"If you let it consume you, you'll be like me... Hollow inside, and a puppet for madmen on the outside. I live, breathe... Only because Father, and Him, order it, will it... Because my life is not mine to take, nor is it mine to make of it what I will. I wish some days that I were strong enough to stand up, to say to them, 'I want to be me... my own person.' But I long ago realized that I can't. Not only because I would be laughed at and punished, but because I have no life...No thoughts or ideas... I feel, but only when it hurts too much to keep the facade up."

He stared out the window as he talked, voice soft, lilting with his aristocratic air, his words so formal, so unlike mine. I stared at him, mesmerized by his voice, his face, his sorrow. I stepped closer to him, and I put a hand on his shoulder, willing him to go on.

"You feel things... So do I. We just bury them because we aren't allowed the luxury of showing them."

He nodded at my words, and he turned, his face so close to mine.

I stared at his eyes, and they were tired, haunted by things he would never get to do, never get to say.

"The worst feeling in life is knowing you can't live it..."

His words struck a chord, a resonating effect warmed my chilled body.

"Life isn't bliss, life is just this: It's living. They say the hardest thing to do in life is simply to live in it, but I say it's trying to exist without it."

We started to walk to the end of the hall, stopping at the point where we had to part.

"We may not have the chance to live life, but we can at least go out doing something for the ones who can...Oh who am I kidding? We'll go out in a spectacularly boring way and will end up forgotten in time. Enough of the pansy talk about the 'greater good', and let's just face it. We may have connected on a level we hadn't known before, but that makes us no different tomorrow than we were today."

The words reminded me of who I was with, shaking off the warmth, the camaraderie. I felt the chill creep back, and I mourned its loss. I closed the gap between us, and I looked at him once more, close enough to feel his breath wash over my face. I brought my hand up, barely touching his face, tracing his cheek and seeing his eyes panic, then close at the comforting feel of another person... One who was comforting, not hurting. One who seemed to care...

I memorized the way his face looked, before I whispered to him, "In the morning we are what we are, but in the nighttime, we can be this- real. Human. I feel you now, can you feel me?"

I never waited for his answer, I stepped back and walked off calmly. If he had something to say about that little scene, he would say it. But he didn't say a word.

I could almost imagine it though, if he did.

"Yes...I can feel your heart in your fingertips..."

-end chapter one-

--Alrighty, give me some feedback. I want to know if I should continue this, or let it die. It's twisted from the origional idea, and I think the characterization is off, but oh well. My story...--


End file.
